


Swim With Your Sorrows

by Fudgyokra



Series: BruDick Week 2020 [3]
Category: Batman: The Dark Knight Returns (2012-2013)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Reconciliation Sex, allow me my melodramatic fluff in peace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22447519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: It’s easy to blame Bruce when Robin stands before him in all her red-green-and-yellow glory, but he does still remember how good it felt to be trusted like that. To be a solid foundation for someone he admired so much, able to defend himself and his… The wordhomedoesn’t bring to mind Gotham, so he scrambles to scratch it out in his thoughts as if doing so can make him forget whose face he sees instead.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne
Series: BruDick Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610485
Comments: 10
Kudos: 82
Collections: BruDick Week 2020





	Swim With Your Sorrows

**Author's Note:**

> Day 5: ~~Truth Serum~~ | Age Difference: Bruce is much older than Dick, and it starts to show.
> 
> So, I kinda took liberties with the prompt, considering the universe I chose. Let’s imagine that B’s age is only just beginning to show because Dick hasn’t been around until now to notice… Anyways, I wrote this all in one sitting. F in the chat for how sore I am from being in a chair that long.
> 
> Title and lyrics from Hurts’s “[Illuminated.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3iVRXPvXjjo)”

_Time waits for no one,_   
_So do you wanna waste some time?_

Whatever universal force has awoken him this time, Dick really wishes it could have waited at least another hour. He is accustomed to snatching sleep by the handful, REM so often slipping through his fingers like crumbs, but he can tell from an immediate gut feeling that something unusually external is to blame for tonight’s difficulties.

His lashes flutter and press into the skin before he opens his eyes, as if he’s trying to rid himself prematurely of whatever he is going to see.

There’s nothing. The blue glow of late-night television flicks shadows across his small and untidy living room, but he always leaves that on, so it is not immediately clear what has disturbed him. Among the softly droned nonsense of the news anchor’s voice, however, comes an answer in the form of the words _“Bruce Wayne,”_ and _“dead.”_ Whatever had been spoken before then must have wormed its way into his subconscious.

Dick fumbles for the remote control and kicks the volume up to a frankly offensive degree. His eardrums—and likely his downstairs neighbors—protest the sudden burst of noise, but it’s all he can do to root himself in reality.

_“Historic Wayne Manor, former home of the Caped Crusader, was completely engulfed by the blaze. Not far from the wreckage, paramedics discovered the collapsed body of who was later identified as family friend and butler Alfred Pennyworth. Officials have determined a stroke to be the cause of death.”_

He clicks the TV off, sound and light disappearing from the room in less time than it takes him to eke out a shuddering exhalation. It’s the only thing he hears in the silence, or, at least, the only thing louder than the resounding buzz in his ears.

Although he has made no contact with either Bruce or Alfred in ten years, the chill of loss runs through him all the same.

* * *

A right turn out of the apartment complex and an hour down the highway on his bike is all it takes for Dick to arrive at his one remaining safe-house. The unassuming little chalet rests on the outskirts of ‘Haven, barely seven-hundred square feet and garage-less, its flaking paint a dirty green color he thinks sums up the spirit of the city. For a place he calls home, he is always exceptionally eager to leave it behind.

Carefully, he works his key into the finicky doorknob and twists to let himself in.

The fact that his homemade silent security system accepts his fingerprint as an abort command is proof it still works, which is a relief. If it had stopped altogether and alerted the authorities to a break-in, they would no doubt find justifiable cause in the suspiciously abandoned look of the place to search it, unearthing the stash of weaponry inside. And if that wasn’t enough to can him, the fully-armored Nightwing uniform hidden at the bottom of an innocuous box of holiday decorations ought to do it. He can’t imagine a less impressive way to have his secret identity blown. At least when it happened to Bruce, it was by merit of war-ending drama, no matter how thoroughly it dragged Batman’s name through the dirt.

He catches himself thinking how Bruce deserved it, even if the pang of guilt he feels after the fact slows him down in the living room, urging him to run fingers nostalgically over his dust-covered entertainment center instead of doing what he came here to do. He hasn’t been in here for a long time. Hasn’t been in the _suit_ for a long time.

Convincing himself that Blüdhaven needed Nightwing about as much as Gotham needed Batman—that is to say, not at all—was easy. Destroying the craving for vigilantism, instilled in him at a young age by a man he loved and respected more than anyone in the world? That was much harder.

Bruce had burned down the Manor with all its memories trapped inside, and Dick could do the same with this place, easy.

Easy…

He lights the match but lets it burn down to his fingertips because the same unseen force that stirs him out of slumber each night apparently needs to haunt him here, too. Three matches later that all meet the same fate, he steps into the hallway to open the closet, crowded with coats and shoes of varying style. The box up top is labeled in Alfred’s immaculate script, curved letters winding together to declare this particular container “Holiday Decorations.”

Dick retrieves it, ignoring the cloud of dust that fluffs into the air the instant he sets it down and scatters its contents on the carpet. Amid the bells and the tree skirt and the angels lies an old uniform sealed in plastic. Dutifully, he tucks that and the first weapon he finds under his arm before finally abandoning the house to its blaze.

* * *

Gotham is hellishly windy.

The roof atop which he is perched offers no barrier, so while he’s glad he had the foresight to arm himself (albeit with only a bo staff), he now wishes he had also grabbed a jacket. His Nightwing suit, tight-fitting as it is, only has so much insulation, but he also wonders if perhaps he’s already at that age where his ability to retain body heat has waned. A moment later, he snorts. _Come on, you’re not even forty._ He still has a couple years before reaching that milestone, and that’s assuming he doesn’t accidentally kill himself grappling around the city, first.

On the next rooftop, he catches sight of a shifting shadow. He has his bo ready on instinct, even if he hasn’t anticipated inviting combat. The plan was to survey how Gotham was reacting to losing her so-called protector, as well as to keep an eye on the Sons of Batman and ensure they weren’t up to anything too idiotic. Although, nothing could be quite as idiotic as idolizing Batman. _Trust me, fellas. I’ve been there._

He has heard all about Bruce’s new birdie, but nothing prepares him for the gut-punch of sensation he gets when he sees her with his own eyes.

She’s so, so little. Even past the oversized goggles she wears, Dick can reasonably estimate that she is close to how old Jason was when he became Bruce’s ward, a year before he met his end. She is certainly a teenager, because, despite her budding womanly figure, she hasn’t yet shed the baby fat that shapes her cheeks and waist. It makes Dick’s heart ache. Had he looked so soft when Bruce first put a weapon in his hands?

He reigns himself in before feelings can muddle the mission. It’s easy to blame Bruce when Robin stands before him in all her red-green-and-yellow glory, but he does still remember how good it felt to be trusted like that. To be a solid foundation for someone he admired so much, able to defend himself and his… The word _home_ doesn’t bring to mind Gotham, so he scrambles to scratch it out in his thoughts as if doing so can make him forget whose face he sees instead.

“Where did you get that costume?” It takes a moment for the words he snaps to register as his own voice. He sounds abrasive. Mean.

Robin spits right back, “Who’s askin’?”

When he doesn’t answer, she rakes an analytical gaze down the front of his uniform, all the way from neck to boots, before settling on the symbol across his chest. Then, her mouth drops open in an O of wonder. “No way. Don’t yank my chain, man. You’re Dick Grayson, aren’t you?”

Dick’s eyebrows shoot up; he has to will them back down to glare. “Hush, would you!” He doesn’t bother asking how she knows, but he still doesn’t want her yelling it to the whole damn city.

She ignores his bad attitude, her entire face glowing with the intensity of her grin. A moment later she sobers, leaning toward him with the presumable intent of sharing news. He finds himself stooping in order to hear her conspiratorial whisper. “Do you want me to bring you to him?”

A question like that could have gotten his attention from a mile away. Surely she doesn’t mean… “Are you allowed to do that?”

When she smirks, it reminds him so much of Jason that, at first, he desperately wants to look away. Then she says, “I’m Robin. It’s practically in my job description to break the rules,” and he can’t resist the fond smile that flickers across his face. It may have been the first one to truly reach his eyes in years, so he wasn’t going to let it go without a fight.

“All right,” he agrees. “Show me the way.”

* * *

Considering the hour, Dick is not surprised to find the cemetery almost completely empty. He and Robin pass under the arch in silence. She doesn’t even deride him for stopping to touch the plaque out front, even when he takes too long tracing the letters that declare how the land was lovingly paid for by the Waynes for public use. So much heart, not enough time.

Robin brings him to a corner he has stood in many times before, where Martha and Thomas loom with their stone angels. Beside them, there are two simple headstones that make up Alfred and Bruce’s graves. The dirt is still fresh in both, but Dick knows the moment he sees the cloaked figure kneeling before Alfred’s that one of them is empty of its body.

Too many emotions flood his brain at once, so he focuses on the simpler ones, letting anger and bitterness pave his reintroduction to his once-upon-a-time mentor. “I heard what you’ve been up to with those gangsters. And what you did to the Joker.”

When Bruce tilts his chin up to look at him, Dick sees the striking blue of his eyes before anything else. Even before the lines on his weary face, or the sadness that insinuates itself for only a second before resignation wins out. At least Bruce has to pick his battles with emotions, too. He doesn’t say anything. That’s okay, Dick thinks, because _he_ has plenty to say.

“Was hoping to find out Alfred’s death had been fake, too.” Bruce still refuses to speak. Dick grits his teeth and venomously spits, “The least you could have done was die with him. Maybe we’d all be better off.”

He knows Bruce can hear his voice tremble, but if Carrie can, she doesn’t let on. Instead, she takes the comment with more heat than he was even able to muster himself and shoves him hard enough that he actually staggers a step back. “Hey!” she hollers. “Buzz off! That’s no way to talk to a guy who just lost everything he has!”

Dick can’t help himself: “What would you know about losing everything?” His gaze flickers from her face to Bruce’s, then away from them both entirely.

Carrie hardly misses a beat. “Y’know what? Nothing! I never had anything to lose to begin with!”

Dick swallows so hard he knows it’s audible. While he tries to imagine which of their situations is worse, Bruce steals his train of thought with a hand placed tentatively on his elbow. “Come home for a while,” he says, and no matter how many fanged words may fight their way out of him, Dick can’t deny him that.

* * *

Homefor Bruce and Robin is the Cave. With the Manor nothing but bones, all its ash-burned guts hollowed out by the elements, the real homestead is the dripping sanctuary beneath, forever comforting despite the darkness.

They settle in Bruce’s makeshift study, an intimate area sectioned off from the rest and lit by a flickering lamplight. Although there is both a loveseat and a full sofa, Robin sprawls herself across the latter and toes her pixie boots off to get comfortable, proving that she can and will do as she pleases. Dick smiles, at least until he has to nudge his way into the scant space left behind on the loveseat after Bruce sits.

Beside one arm of the couch is a globe concealing a decanter, and Dick doesn’t have to guess at the liquid inside, especially not when he is handed a glassful. He wants to ask any number of questions. _When did you start drinking? How long has Robin been in the picture? What will you do now?_ But when Bruce pulls back his hood to sip his scotch, the first thing out of Dick’s mouth is an earnest, “When did we get so old?”

“I don’t know,” comes the answer, followed immediately by a dire tilt of his drink.

First, Dick watches the bob of the man’s Adam’s apple as he swallows, then fixates on the ice as it clinks so he won’t have to confront the feelings tangled like vines behind his ribcage. It does not work, because the next thing he notices is how Bruce is able to wrap his entire hand around the glass, fingers and thumb touching. Has he always been such a giant, or is this somehow a trick of the light? Neither answer helps Dick overcome the fact that the tightness in his throat isn’t from intimidation. Right now he just misses Bruce’s touch so badly he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He hadn’t ever planned on coming back, and he definitely hadn’t planned on coming back harboring the same stubborn love as when he’d left. He takes a long swallow of his drink, too, feeling Bruce’s eyes on him the same way he is sure Bruce felt his.

A sense of heat builds all around him, and he can’t escape it no matter how intently he stares down at the glass he has drained or how long he twists it anxiously between both hands. There is something dying to be said now, but he’s torn between wanting to cuss Bruce out for all the shit he has pulled and wanting to be wrapped in the man’s embrace like some lost, scared child.

What he ends up saying is, “I saw you beat Superman. Long-time debate finally settled, eh?”

“I cheated,” Bruce says with something curiously light to his tone that Dick can’t for the life of him identify. “It wasn’t pretty.”

He doesn’t feel like laughing but forces a chuckle anyway. “No kidding. You probably can’t even take the kid in a fight, can you?” Pointedly, he looks over at Robin, who has passed out with one leg bent and resting against the back of the couch like the bizarre position was the most comfortable one she could find. Dick can’t blame her; he had fallen asleep on a tree branch, once. He doesn’t think his back would like that very much these days.

He and Bruce rise, each of them reaching for the blanket on the back of the sofa at the same time. When their hands overlap, there is a spark Dick can feel thrumming from the tips of his fingers down through his entire palm. They leave them there for a moment too long to go unnoticed before Bruce slides the blanket off and does what they had both obviously been aiming for when he drapes it over Robin.

She rolls onto her side, clutching the blanket tightly to her, and Dick feels abruptly drowned by the emotions fighting their way up his windpipe. He chokes them down just long enough to croak a tease. “How about a sparring session? Unless you’re afraid of breaking a hip.”

Bruce makes a deep rumbling sound that only registers to Dick as a laugh _after_ the shameful thrill it creates at the base of his spine finishes its ascent. He can feel the tension in his neck and shoulders and feigns stretching to will it away.

“I can still take you, boy.”

The thrill comes back tenfold. Dick hates the way his own laugh sputters out of him like a breathless lurch of his lungs is just what he needed to feel like a proper fool.

What he doesn’t mind is how Bruce overwhelms him in the beginning of their fight, energy and muscle clearly still working despite everything. After enough minutes pass, though, a well-timed move on Dick’s part has Bruce going down like a particularly heavy sack of bricks with a whoosh of air accompanying him.

Dick now finds himself sitting on top of the man, one elbow planted on the ground beside his head. Both of them are heaving, wearing matching expressions of satisfaction for such revelry. Whatever the name of the poisonous sensation that creeps up on him at how natural this feels, it has no business breaking through the barriers he has spent the last decade building.

Frown lines stretch invitingly around the corners of Bruce’s smiling mouth, and before Dick can mull over any of the serious repercussions there will be for ruining this reconciliation, he presses his lips to one, then tilts his face as if he intends to follow it inward for a kiss. But he stops. Tipsy warmth prevents him from either progressing or moving away, instead keeping him rooted to the spot while his mental gears whir in double time to try and come up with a proper excuse. Oh, god, Bruce was gonna kill him.

Bruce tilts his chin and kisses him proper, and Dick ekes out the most pitiful little groan between them. Not part of the plan.

_Fuck the plan._

Before his breathing even gets the chance to plateau into something resembling a normal pattern, he says, “I don’t suppose you’ve got a makeshift bedroom in this Cave.”

Bruce’s eyes widen the barest bit before an incredibly familiar spark ignites in them. That hasn’t changed in ten years, and Dick would hate to see it ever leave. “In fact,” the man answers, “I do.”

Dick bites back a quip about earning a particularly hospitable welcome home, because the thought alonespreads heat through his body faster than he can stop it.

His toes are already curling in his boots.

* * *

He doesn’t remember the last time he has felt this good. There is a terrifying number of addicting things about having Bruce above him, inside him, pinning him down hard with hands that cover a good portion of Dick’s shoulders.

They don’t have to wait long before he is panting in ragged gasps, so close to his tipping point he doesn’t realize Bruce’s arms are shaking until all movement completely ceases, dragging a humiliating whine from him in the process. When he begins to complain, the grimace curling Bruce’s mouth finally catches his attention.

Dick feels suddenly ashamed of how greedy he has been, and from there the sensation only feathers into a thousand different branches. He has a lot of things to feel guilty for.

When he first arrived in Gotham, he wanted nothing more than to find something that would prove him right for fleeing. At the time, it had felt smart. Vindicated, even. Jason was dead, Alfred unable to be separated from his pain, and Bruce…well, he was the man who had caused it all. But when Dick thinks about everything before then, and about the times he spent in Blüdhaven debating if he should go back—if he would even be _welcome_ back—he realizes how much he gave up trying to run from something he never really wanted to leave behind.

It’s not a particularly comforting revelation. Time has passed them all by, and this is how they are earning it back.

He sighs, pushing on Bruce’s shoulders to urge him back. For a long while, they sit in silence, reading whatever they could find in each other’s expressions until Dick is struck by an idea that puts a soft smile back on his face.

Gingerly, he wraps his hands around Bruce’s waist and pins him down, climbing on top of him the same way he had during their sparring. He plants his palms on Bruce’s shoulders as if to recreate their previous position, then decidedly introduces his own by moving them down to his hips instead. They’re bonier than Dick remembers, with more scars. He’s bruised all over, broken down from the fight with Clark, and he still lets Dick map him out with his fingers and tongue, lets him murmur compliments against his skin when he sinks back down on Bruce’s length. Dick listens to him sigh contentedly as his own form of praise, inhales it like a drug.

“I thought you could still handle me,” he teases.

“I took on Superman,” Bruce defends, devoid of fire. His manner of joking hasn’t changed, either.

Dick barks a laugh, the first genuine one he has had in far too long. “You cheated. You told me so yourself.”

In response, Bruce grabs his waist and slams him down on a particularly powerful thrust. A handful of those later and Dick is sucking in a breath so huge he swears he can feel it cool him from the inside out as he comes undone, shaking apart with Bruce there to hold him steady through it.

“I’m resourceful,” Bruce grunts more than says. He pumps his hips upward a few more times and then empties himself inside to the tune of a weary keen from Dick, who, despite having the physical advantage, is suddenly swaying in Bruce’s lap like a wilting flower.

When he hits the mattress, it’s because he has been bodily lifted and deposited on his back, and aftershocks take him arching when Bruce’s lips find their way to his again, drinking down all his protests at being moved.

As the two of them lie there huffing, he finally allows the flutter in his chest to take shape without tamping down the thoughts of home that had scared him so much before.

“I think we can do this.” The words are quiet, barely-there, but Bruce catches them effortlessly, going by the squeeze he gives Dick’s hip. “It’s an interesting way of making up for lost time,” he adds.

“As much of it as I’ve got left, I’m willing to give.”

Dick swallows hard around another emotion he’s not ready to unleash quite yet. Past the edges of a tired laugh, he says, “You’re not _that_ old.” Then, seriously: “I’m not going anywhere, not now.”

Bruce kisses him again like he can’t get enough, and that’s about the most perfect response Dick can think of.


End file.
